


Echoes

by MidnightHallow



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Post-Trespasser, Solavellan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 22:22:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9682607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidnightHallow/pseuds/MidnightHallow
Summary: Haunted by the voices that have taken up residence inside of her mind, Nalya Lavellan seeks to redeem the ancient being that intends to destroy the world a second time. As Nalya relies on old friendships and forges new alliances in Kirkwall to aid in her endeavors, dark forces stir in the void threatening the illusion of peace the former Inquisitor had built. Without the aid of a new champion to stand for order in Thedas, will Nalya be able to change the Dread Wolf's heart?





	1. The Chains that Bind Us

The chains of Kirkwall. Nalya had read the ‘Tale of the Champion,’ mainly at Cassandra’s persistence, but nothing could have prepared her for the towering statues, carved into black cliffs, that guided her into the harbor. They loomed before her, darkening the sky with the fear they commanded, the chains making her feel the weight of despair as she stared up into their forlorn carved faces, her hand reaching up to stroke her neck as though to assure herself she was not bound as they were. Some pulled against the chains as though they might break, others wept and cried for help that would never come, and worst still were the others that had been cowed; blindly following wherever the chains might lead them. They were now property, their worth a monetary value; could people who had been shattered and broken as their identity was stripped away from them still be considered people? How long did it take to forget a life before slavery? How long until its poison ate away at the chance for freedom to look only to the master’s next command? And how long would it take to regain what was lost, or was that even possible?

_We are the last Elvhen, never again shall we submit._

True, Nalya had never been a slave, but she remembered the firelit tales her keeper and ha’ren had told her. Tales all Dalish elves were told, to remember what was forgotten, of what they might one day regain. Her clan had once roamed the Free Marches but they had stayed away from these giant chains, perhaps even the Dalish wish to forget somethings, things too painful to remember like the slavers whip. To find herself here, in Kirkwall? Was this where she came to when she had nothing left? If Deshaunna could see her now. _Deshaunna. May Falon’din_ … Nalya shook her head bitterly. No. Falon’din was not there, would not answer and surely was not the gentle god of death her Keeper had told her about. A cold shiver ran down Nalya’s spine that had nothing to do with the air that blew across the ship. Never had she been so desperately alone. Lavellan was more than a name, it was her identity, another way for the Dalish to mark her as one of them, just as the vallaslin had once marked her physically. She traced the vallaslin of Ghilan'nain that had graced her forehead before that too had been taken from her. Could she still consider herself Dalish if she no longer wore vallaslin, if she no longer believed the Creators were gods, if there was no longer a clan Lavellan? No. That part of her life was over, and with the Inquisition ended she was unable to return home like the rest of her companions. Dorian had gone back to Tevinter. Cassandra and Leliana to the chantry. Sera to Val Royaox. Cole to the Fade. Cullen to Ferelden. Josephine to Antiva. The Iron Bull to the Chargers. The list went on and on. In the end she had watched as all those who had followed her leave Skyhold to return to the world they had fought hard to protect. Thedas was experiencing relative peace after Dragon’s Breath had been disrupted, but Nalya knew better. Perhaps it was the reality that her home was no longer there to return to or that she had built a new home in the Inquisition only for it to be taken from her as well, that had finally broken her indomitable spirit. Or perhaps that was just the tip of the iceberg that clung to her still beating heart.

Nalya rubbed her nub in thought, it was a new habit; a way to reinforce all that had happened, to steady herself when she awoke from the nightmares that plagued her sleep to find that her hand was still missing. Her elbow would occasionally emit a small glow accompanied by a prickling pain; all that remained of her left arm and with it the source of her divine power. She shook her head bitterly. It was divine alright. The Herald of Andraste, that’s what the shemlen had called her when they had first seen it close the rifts. It had offered them hope, that their Maker had not forsaken them, but to bestow that title on an elf had not been kindly accepted. She had argued against it, not wanting to be branded the next savior of a religion she had never followed, the same religion that had torn her people’s lands apart in the Exalted March of the Dales. Nalya had been right, it had not been the mark of Andraste, but neither could she take comfort in the truth. The power of the anchor had belonged to someone her kind were much more familiar to. _Fen’Harel, He-who-hunts-alone, The Great Wolf, Lord of Tricksters, Roamer of the Beyond, Bringer of Nightmares, The Dread Wolf…and Vhenan_. She added the endearment bitterly to the list of names the Dalish called their god of misfortune.

          **I will never forget you.**

His voice still echoed in her head. She had tried to stand, to follow him through the eluvian when he had tried to leave for the second time. He didn’t want this. He had kissed her, reminded her of all they had shared, of what they still felt for each other, and then just like before he was gone. Her head still spinning with different questions she had not had the chance to ask him before she had lost consciousness and awoken back at the winter palace. That’s when she had stormed down and declared the Inquisition disbanded. Her companions had tried to ask her what had happened between her and Solas. It was only at Cole’s urging that Dorian and Bull had agreed to stay behind as Nalya had practically stumbled through the last eluvian. The one that would take her to face the Agent of Fen’Harel. “She needs to see. To know he’s still real from his lips, to hear the tremor in his voice as he tells her the Truth. She cannot listen if we are there.” Yet when the truth had finally come out, Nalya had not recoiled from the mythical god but was relieved to have an answer for everything. All the little lies, the tells she had seen during rare moments when Solas had been caught off guard, to him knowing things that surely even the fade had forgotten. Solas had been a mystery, but a god?

          **Presuming that I could plausibly predict a man who seeks to rise to godhood.**

          “And can you?” Nalya repeated her naive words to herself under her breath. She knew she was torturing herself, twisting the knife that lay in her heart for letting the Dread Wolf get so close. Her life had been a series of blunders ever since leaving her clan, before if she was being honest. She had passed all the tests, earned her vallaslin and joined the ranks of the hunters. Things had been going well, matches were being proposed to her when suddenly tinder would lite when it shouldn’t have, footsteps were muffled when a branch should have broken. It was all too suspicious and her Keeper revealed to her that her magic had awoken. Nalya had argued that she was a hunter, she’d earned her place in the clan long before magic had entered her life but the rules the People demanded her removal: too much magic in one clan was bound to attract the Dread Wolf’s attention. She scoffed. So did a giant hole in the sky. Deshanna had decided to send her to the Conclave. There she could do a service to the Dalish clans, reporting her findings and find a new home since the circles were no longer an option. The Conclave was her best chance at finding someone who could mentor her, perhaps hear news of other clans that needed more magic. But that had been before the Breach.

          The ship groaned as it was pulled into dock, the wood creaking with each pull of the crank that drew it further into place. Nalya pulled her hood more tightly around her face. She had managed to avoid the attention of most everyone on the ship with the exception of a few side glances at the obvious missing limb. She hated to admit but she had been more readily accepted without the glaring vallaslin that had marked her as an outsider, though despite the ease the trip had been there was the lingering potential for trouble if she were recognized. Few had actually met her as the Inquisitor. Bull had pointed it out to her not long after their arrival at Skyhold that she could disguise herself quite easily. Putting on a few simple clothes and she was simply an elf again, the illusion of grandeur came from the mark and the company she had kept not from anything she herself portrayed. Especially now, she thought. If the mark had made her special, who was she without it? Who would recognize the Inquisitor now?

          A loud clank announced that the ship had finally arrived at its destination. Nalya gathered her minor belongings, struggling only slightly at the unbalanced way she was forced to accommodate for her handicap, grateful that her life among the Dalish had at least instilled in her the idea of travelling light. With only a few glances in her direction, she joined the others on the docks that would take them into the Gallows. She swallowed thickly when she saw the remains of the city. Varric had assured her that his money had gone into reconstructing the city after Kirkwall’s Knight Commander had tried to slaughter every mage in the city, but the damage went beyond the piles of rubble. Scorch marks were still present on the walls and the voices in Nalya’s head screamed as the fade bled into the fabric around them. She did her best to calm the Well of Sorrows but they seemed intent to bombard her with images of all that was lost here: the chantry explosion, elven slaves being lead through in chains, Qunari slaughtering everyone in the streets as innocents ran, the fear and panic at the sight of Templars patrolling for blood mages.

Blood. Pain. Fear. Run. Run. Ru-

          “Nalya Lavellan?” a quiet almost bored voice said in front of her, accompanied by a hesitant grip on her shoulders.

          Nalya looked up to see Bran Cavin standing an arm’s reach from her, only a slight twitch of his brow in mock concern. “Yes?” she moaned through gritted teeth, the Well still screeching half intelligibly.

          “I’m afraid Vicount Tethras was not able to meet you in person, but sent me in his stead. I will leave you once we reach the estate but you may call upon him at your earliest convenience. He has seen to it that your new servant be aware of your… needs as they become apparent.”

          Nalya scowled at the awkward mention of her handicap. It wasn’t enough that she would never hold a bow again but that everyone seemed intent on either skirting around her limb or bluntly attempting to bring it to her attention as though she were not aware. It was difficult to still feel useful, and while she didn’t miss the searing pain the mark had become in the final stages before Solas had removed it… she desperately wished there had been another way. The mark had utterly shattered her hand and forearm to the point without the mark to hold it together it would have continued falling apart. As it was, Solas had whispered a small spell that had paralyzed it, freezing it until it could be properly removed. It wasn’t much, just another thing she felt she owed the puppet master he had revealed himself to be. She nodded curtly to indicate she understood his intent, and Ban Cavin turned sharply indicating she was to follow.

          She allowed her mind to focus on Solas as she was lead out of the Gallows and into Hightown. She could learn the maze of streets in her own time, and she was too exhausted from the trip to focus on it even if she wanted to. These were the moments when she missed him most. For all of his faults, he had always been the one to see to it her needs were met, to not be fooled by her façade of tranquility. Though she had bonded with all of the members of her inner circle, it was only Solas who had encouraged her to reveal herself, who thought to ensure she was happy or to discuss her troubles objectively. It was Solas who had walked through the woods with her at Haven, listening to her recount stories told by the Dalish because he knew she was homesick. It was Solas who would seek her out with merely his presence after a tough decision because he knew she needed the support. The list she owed him would indeed be staggering if she ever took the time to write it all down. His hand had guided her since she had blundered out of the Fade and she had gripped his for fear of falling. He had never abandoned her throughout their journey, her confidant, friend, and lover. When he had offered her the truth of the vallaslin she had accepted his wisdom like she had everything else he had offered her. Though the truth he offered was dark, she had seen it as a way of becoming his equal, of being accepted into a new clan with just the two of them. That he was embracing her into his realm of dreams and she would never again fear of being alone. And then she woke up.

          Few noticed the changes in her after their breakup. She smiled and acted much the same as she had previously, throwing herself desperately into her work as a means of coping and escape. If she could defeat Corypheous then she would receive her answers, there would be time to convince Solas that their love was salvageable, until then she was unfeeling, a golem of duty, carrying out its instructions. So focused on these goals that her companions assumed it was a necessary obsession, enabling her the emptiness of her quarters without their interruption to break. Then she’d wished for anger, for the ability to scream at his masked face, to demand the answers he shielded from her, but instead found only a searing pain in her chest that caused her to sob pitifully until she could fall asleep only for her dreams to torment her. Desire, Despair, Fear all took turns in their desecration of her sanity. It was almost a relief to have the Well of Sorrow acting as her guardian, though the whispered words she took as to mean comfort were less steadying when they were not delivered in the voice she craved followed by a translation. One of the few comforts in this time was the intermittent presence of Cole, who would sing soft Dalish melodies for her and deliver vague and familiar thoughts that mimicked the elf’s cadence that seemed to say wherever Solas was, he was also thinking of her. Almost as soon as Solas departed, Leliana took up the mantle in finding him; one of the few to recognize Solas’s importance in the inner circle as more than just a Fade expert. Nalya spent most of her days in the rookery, hung desperately on any news, inventing new reasons to her for climbing those stairs with increasing regularity. Though Leliana must have known the truth, Nalya never received more than an occasional pitying glance.

Without the direct threat of an enemy, the inquisitions focus turned on rebuilding and the inner circle began to filter out one by one. It wasn’t until the Winter Palace where she saw her team again. It had only been two years, and yet Nalya felt decades older. She poured her life into the Inquisition and to see others destroy what had been her new dream after thousands of nightmares left her defeated and exhausted. Yet she was propelled onward by the threat of Dragon’s Breath. The anchor installed a sense of panic to her footsteps, no longer leaping gracefully between arrows but frim, heavy steps that displayed her pain. She was dying. Before Dorian had even grasped the anchor in concern after a particularly bad flare up, Cole’s voice ominously confirming what Bull and Dorian were only just beginning to grasp. She liked it better this way, the idea of dying while she was still useful, dying in the line of duty rather than the half-life she had been living in the shadowed garden at Skyhold for the past two years. Then finally, she had fallen through the last eluvian to Solas. It had been a dream, to see him, touch him, to find his tortured gaze fixated on her as he told her everything he could. His presence had been an anesthetic, numbing her to the agony and despair, enabling her to focus and question and breathe with increasing awareness. Then as soon as he was gone, she returned to drowning.

“Here we are Mistress Lavellan,” Bran Cavin’s harsh tone jarring her back reluctantly to the streets of Kirkwall. “You will find the viscount has taken the liberty of furnishing the estate. If anything is not to your liking, you need only ask and arrangements will be made.”

 He stood with his back to the door and his eyes focused on somewhere above her. It did not escape Nalya’s notice that he was relishing the opportunity to be rid of her, despite his severity she held him no personal grudge for his lack of interest. She hadn’t exactly been receptive to conversation if he had attempted any on her behalf. He stretched out his hand expectantly to reveal a large brass key which forced her to awkwardly set her things on the ground to take it from him. He offered only a brief look of apology before gathering himself to leave her. As she slid the key into the lock she heard a pause in his steps.

“Oh, and… Mistress Lavellan?”

Nalya turned slightly to see his first attempt at a smile. Her surprise caused her to trip slightly and she heard the soft click of the door as it unlocked as he sighed slightly to steady himself.

“Welcome to Kirkwall.”


	2. Unspoken Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think I've planned it out, so I'll try to come up with some kind of schedule. This is a shorter chapter as I get my thoughts in order. We'll see how good I am at keeping my own promises.

The door itself would have been enough to overwhelm her. It was impressively large, white with swirling green engravings that reminded her of the Dalish heraldry symbols she had decorated Skyhold with. She took a moment standing in the doorway admiring how the light seemed to linger and shine on the green elements, displaying flecks of gold and copper. It wasn’t until she had reclaimed her bags from Kirkwalls streets that she noticed the interior. Varric had done his best to recreate the beauty they’d discovered at the Temple of Mythal. The flooring was intricate; floral mosaic in the same forest green, olive, and golden marsh colors that had first captivated her on the door: the circular centerpiece of the mosaic was neutral beige, the floral décor surrounding it a crimson red that stood out against the green hues. The walls had been recently restored but the aged look remained; rich, deep stone framed by banners of gold. Nalya reached out to touch everything as she passed, her bags left forgotten in the entry way. Artwork hung on the walls in gilded frames, most were forest scenes, several depicted halla, all with a distinctly elvish feel. It wouldn’t have surprised her if at least half of these paintings were done by actual elven men and women instead of human imitators. The furniture was not lavish, but simple and practical, echoing the style she had maintained at Skyhold. The lead rugs that guided her through matched the red tones found in the tile with cream accents, but it was the feel of the fabric against her bare feet that made her sigh longingly, wriggling her toes into the luxurious wool.

This was hers. The thought dawned on her suddenly and overwhelmed her, the room spinning as she sought a seat to come to terms with this revelation. This was her home; these were her books that lined the wall of her library. This desk was where she would read letters; those were the sheets she would sleep in at night. Her eyelashes grew wet with the burden of it all. It was not an unpleasant experience after so much unknown. The idea that she could actually build a life, unbothered by the duty and stress that had plagued her. While she had made the best of Skyhold, felt in some sense she belonged there; there was always a felt it belonged to the Inquisition itself, not her. As if her and the Inquisitor were two separate entities. Then, after Solas had left the second time she thought any future she could have possibly claimed was over. She had felt the weight of her mortality each time the anchor had lifted and thrown her, her powerlessness ironic in her inability to control the very source of her initial command. It had felt inevitable, even after the removal of her forearm and hand, death had seemed the next step. She had gathered Leliana, Cassandra, and Harding to discuss what had transpired beyond the eluvian so that they could prepare, know what they would be facing, and understand Nalya’s own wishes whenever Solas chose to reveal himself. She had not planned on seeing it for herself, in fact a part of her actually hoped she wouldn’t. Solas had always been reasonable, stubborn and arrogant maybe, but not irrational, not devoid of emotion or outright insulting. She had no doubt that given an plausible alternative, Solas would at the bare minimum consider it and would not risk lives unnecessarily. Yet she was afraid to face him again.

_**I would not have you see what I become.** _

Why did that frighten her so much? The Crossroads had taught her the impact history had made on creating a villain the elves felt they needed, one that would simplify the fall of their civilization. A villain that never truly existed, though the name and person behind it had; Solas wore this mask with full knowledge of how he would be perceived. Was that his intention? Becoming the wolf the world expected him to be? Would she lose him to this cause, would he cast himself into martyrdom to atone for his actions millennia’s past for a world that hated and reviled him? The thought unnerved her.

She made her way back to the entry way to find that her belongings were no longer there. Unease exuded from her as she began to explore the house more thoroughly as she was certain she was not alone. She made her way upstairs, trying not to become distracted by the ornate staircase as she sought the intruder. In the master bedroom was an elven woman emptying the contents of her bags. Nalya watched her silently as the lithe maiden sung softly under her breath as she worked. The Well seemed to pick up on the tune and sang along in its ethereal cadence. She was remarkably small, even for elven standards, her cheeks indenting and sallow to convey she had been underweight and malnourished during her adolescence and childhood. Her straw blonde hair was held in a lose bun, unfastened hair curling slightly as it fell into her face as she worked. Large green eyes dominated her appearance and the lack of vallaslin told Nalya she was likely a city elf. After she finished her chore she turned to face Nalya and curtsied expectantly.

“I hope all is well Mistress,” she trilled, her voice was soft and high pitched her tone childish in a way that said she were never properly educated. “My name is Orana. Master Varric hired me to serve you as I served Mistress Hawke. I can cook and clean, and I can play the lute if you wish.”

“Thank you Orana,” Nalya warmed to the woman instantly, her innocence stirring a maternal protection over the elf. “You worked for the Champion?” “Yes. Mistress Hawke and Master Fenris rescued me a few years ago. Papa and I were owned by Mistress Hadriana.”

“Owned?” Nalya swallowed thickly. “You were a slave?”

“Yes, Mistress. When Mistress Hadriana killed Papa, Mistress Hawke offered me to work as a servant. She was good to me, but she left when things got bad here. I kept the house clean and Master Varric said that I could take care of you now.”

“Marian used to live here?” Nalya asked in surprise. When Varric had offered her an estate she wasn’t expecting to move into the champion’s old home.

“No, Mistress. Master Fenris lived here before he left with Mistress Hawke.”

Nalya nodded in understanding, glancing uncomfortably around the room. The bed with the wooden frame popped against the hard stone, the twirling posts more graceful than practical drew her eyes temptingly. The same deep greens covered the windows and floors but the bedding was unique in its elegant lavender covers. The print was matelassé with rich plum stitch, matching the color of the drapes that hung across the bed posts. She felt her eyelids droop in desire, stifling the yawn that threatened to overcome her.

“Will there be anything else Mistress?”

Nalya shook her head slowly, her limbs growing heavy with sleep, dismissing Orana and allowing herself to drift closer to the bed. Once she was alone, she sat solemnly on the bed, running her hand along the pattern of the covers. There was always a hesitation in her now when she intended to sleep, a fear had evolved deep within her as the nightmares increased in their strength. She was fine with death, but there were many fates worse than death. She imagined succumbing to a demon and becoming an abomination ranked high on that list of things. Slowly almost ritualistically, she changed into her nightgown, content at the reddening sky gleaming in her windows casting a warm glow in her new bedroom. Once under the covers she said a silent prayer that her dreams would not be as turbulent as they had in recent days.

 

* * *

 

The mists around her cleared as she stepped, the Fade revealing the location of her dreaming. She could have wept with joy as she recognized the familiar forest that had surrounded Haven prior to the battle which had buried the entire area under a mountain. She glanced up at the sky and saw the green scar that dominated the heavens confirming her suspicions. Her mind had brought her to a time just after the closing of the breach, when she had sought comfort in the serenity of the forest, away from the rabble of the city. She glanced down and stifled the longing sigh that surfaced when she saw her now present left hand. She wriggled her fingers cautiously, missing the sensation, though the green anchor that burned on her palm was less comforting. She shifted her weight and noticed the tell-tale sensation of her quiver and bow as they hung on her back. Nalya bit her lip to calm herself. Now was not the time to mourn the loss of her abilities, she could not afford to attract the attention of a despair demon.

Silently, she made her way through the forest, taking her time as she sought the same paths she had taken that day. The twisting path, curved upwards into the mountains and she followed it without hesitation. It lead to her favorite spot, an alcove against the trees that enabled her to watch the city from a distance, the lights clearly glowing despite the relative light of day. She sat with her feet dangling off the edge, absentmindedly playing with the snow around her. It had been a sensation that had unnerved her at first, the suddenly clarity of her dreams, more so with the effect of the anchor than the awakening of her powers. But the little things the Fade had difficulty in recreating in entirety; the bitterness of snow that would normally have chilled preventing this kind of leisure was what steadied her; an assurance that she was both safe and dreaming. This enabled her to relax while also maintain a level of wariness in case temptation presented itself.

She stayed longer than she had on the memory of this night. She had returned to camp shortly after gathering some elfroot that grew between the trees of the forest, making her appearance for the festivities prior to the attack. Without her arrival, the day melted into twilight peacefully, no sign of the red Templars marching toward them through the snow, no Corypheous or Samson to lead them, and thankfully no dragon flew overhead. The only disturbances to the otherwise empty scene was the faint noises that came from the village and the occasional birds that glided through the air, dancing effortlessly with the current of wind that blew intermittently through the mountain pass. Despite the tranquility, the sensation of being watched crept into the forefront of her mind, making her abandon her idle snow crafting and instead finger her bow that she drew into her lap. A low whine pierced the still air and she chuckled as she faced him. Behind her, still lurking in the shadows of the trees was a lone wolf. He was entirely black and had glowing blue eyes that would have been translucent and terrifying in the darkness had it not been for their familiarity. His ears and shoulders hunched to convey subordination when she had spun towards him. Nalya gestured to the wolf to join her, each step he took in her direction seemed hesitant, almost regretfully. Another whine escaped him as he reached her, sliding down against her leg, his muzzle nestled onto her lap. She stroked his soft fur quietly. The feel of his physical presence and weight that conveyed his realness caused unwelcome tears to well in her eyes. The wolf whimpered against her hand, nuzzling it gently in comfort.

“I missed you,” her voice barely above a cracked whisper.

A panted whine told her he felt the same. It made sense to her now, the relief as sweet as it was disconcerting. It had been a while since the Dread Wolf laid on her lap; he alone seemed capable of protecting her against the demons that normally awaited her. The tranquility of her dream was the result of his influence, part of his somniari power that enabled him to focus and dream in full consciousness. Drawing her into a sanctuary away from her own turbulent emotions that plagued and darkened her mind, he indulged himself in joining her just as he protected her. For as long as he remained her guardian here, the demons could not torment her. She hated the vulnerability and dependence, she was grateful all the same for his presence.

“Solas,” she murmured as she stroked his ear. “You can’t protect me forever.”

The wolf growled softly but made no other reply.

“I’m dying Solas. You may have taken the anchor from my hand but part of it is still inside me. It will consume me, one day or the next. Distancing yourself from me does nothing to lessen that fact.”

He nipped her before nuzzling in closer, a pitiful whine that sounded more like a human moan passed his lips.

“The day will come when you’re going to have to choose. Let me help you, Solas. Don’t let me wither and die, my last moments spent in exile imitating safety,” the words were said more confidently than she felt, her voice not yet giving sway to the tightness she felt in her throat.

Grudgingly, the wolf maneuvered out of her embrace, standing to face her as he looked into her eyes.

_I know, Vhenan. I can’t. Not yet._

His voice came from the unmoving jowls of the wolf yet she felt it the words more in her mind than she heard with her ears. The words glinted at the promise of another night, the potential for him to include her in whatever plans he now concerned himself with. His greatest fear had been her leverage against him, promising companionship even when he felt none was deserved.

“When then?”

Instead of an answer, the Dread Wolf nuzzled her cheek before turning to leave. When he reached the edge of the forest he glanced back at her. He disappeared in a haze of black fog that blurred even the trees from her sight. As the Fade dissolved around her, Nalya took one last look at the village of Haven, surrounded by the serenity of stars of a night that had never transpired before she opened her eyes, no longer puffed and swollen from sleepless nights. She glanced at the window to see dawn had not quite come over the mass of buildings that framed her view. She sighed serenely, her mind less troubled than it had been for months.

**Author's Note:**

> And so it begins...


End file.
